


Love Will Have Its Sacrifices

by BinaryAngel



Series: Love Is Strange [2]
Category: Strange Magic (2015)
Genre: F/M, Fae & Fairies, Friends to Lovers, Goblins, Second Generation, Slow Burn, Years After Movie, mute character
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2019-07-15 17:44:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 10,514
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16068116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BinaryAngel/pseuds/BinaryAngel
Summary: The Fairy Kingdom and Dark Forest have been at peace for many years under the rule of Queen Marianne and the Bog King, but trouble is from within the heart of the Deadlands, a vicious wasteland outside of their reign. Down in Roothaven a friendship sparks between a Deadland inhabitant and the Bog Prince. Together they face the threat, but can their friendship and the budding hints of more blossom in a place where nothing blooms?Tags will be updated as the story progresses.





	1. Roothaven

**Author's Note:**

> If you liked Everybody's Got a Secret, this is the story that it takes place in. The beginning of Chêl and the Bog Prince's journey.
> 
> You do not need to read the oneshot before reading this.

        The Deadlands were aptly named in contrast to the lush greens and vibrant colours of the Fairy Kingdom to the west or the shaded, wild beauty of the Dark Forest to the north. The borders were marked by browning plants, struggling to survive amongst the rocks and boulders that marred its length. Its colours were dull, greys and browns, and plantlike skeletal and wilted. Storms ravaged the lands when the sun did not bake it and vicious, starving predators slunk along searching for prey.

        Few dared to settle close to the borders. Those who did lived a rough life to reap small, but hearty harvests. The largest was the village of Roothaven, populated by Fairies and Elves who had carved a peaceful life for themselves, a touch closer to the border than previous settlers had dared.

        They owed, in part, their peace to the mysterious creature who lived within the Deadlands. Towering above the short elves, but level with the fairies of the village, the cloaked figure had appeared one morning with a bag and unnerving silence. She, her gender something they could only guess at based on glimpses of her figure beneath the layers of the strange cloak she wore, had approached from the Deadlands to be met with whispers and hesitant welcome.

        The stranger knew her way around, walking through the cobblestone streets as if she had been raised alongside them. The bag she carried had been filled with leather and dried meat. She offered, in slow hand motions, her supplies in exchange for some of their crops, herbs, and imports. She was generous in her trading, taking only a little in return for the entirety of the bounty she brought with her.

        Meat and leather of the beasts. The village understood without being told that she was, whether by choice or coincidence, their silent protector.

        She returned to the village again, several weeks later, with a bag of roots to offer. Again she was generous, unloading her bag, and left with very little.

        It became a semi-regular thing, dictated more by the weather than any calendar. When her bags were filled with leather, furs, and meat it meant that rain would come. When her bags were heavy with roots it meant they would have clear skies for a while.

        They learned from her, without her ever breaking her silence. They learned when to keep children close to their homes and when to double the lookouts in case any predators slipped past her on their quest for food. They learned when to strengthen their creeks and irrigation system to prevent floods from ruining their crops. From her gestures they learned which of her strange roots were good for eating and which were medicinal.

        “Hunter!” Some called her, because they did not learn her name and they felt wrong calling her a stranger.

        They had no reason to fear her, but it would be a lie to say the adults did not steer curious children away from her when she made her trek through the village to trade. Even though they knew when the predators would be scares, they no longer allowed their youths to play along the rocks separating her land from theirs. They whispered beneath the shade of their awnings, or behind closed doors at night, spinning tales of what she was and where she had come from. Fables and warnings to keep the children from straying too far, from trusting her too much.

        Such was the way of people with more questions than answers, whose imaginations were stretching to fill in the shadowed gaps surrounding her cloaked figure. They knew every face, every voice of anyone who lived within Roothaven from birth until death or departure.

        She was different, an outsider. They appreciated her goods, but breathed easier when they watched her back as she left their village.  
They reacted in a similar manner when another outsider entered their village, although he was as different from the hunter as he was from them. Taller than the lot of them, it only took one glance at his lanky limbs and grey exoskeleton to know he was from the Dark Forest. They had never had visitors from the Dark Forest before and it set them on edge, despite the fact that peace had been established between the Fairy Kingdom and Dark Forest ever since the Night of the Love Potion.

        The Night of the Love Potion was recent enough that all of Roothaven knew it, but distant enough that they never cared to dig for the details. They knew it could have ended with war instead of the treaty between the two kingdoms, brokered by the present Queen, Marianne, and the Bog King of the Dark Forest. The years since has expanded travel lines and trade routes, but Roothaven had been largely unaffected.

        Until the Bog Prince, supposedly a near spitting image of his father, chose to visit their haven.

        He had no royal insignia to give his identity away. Just a plain, brown bag thrown over his shoulder and a simple staff he walked with. It was the letters he delivered to one of the elven families bearing the insignia of the royal consort and Princess Dawn that hinted, but it was the four wings that gave him away.  
Each richly coloured, as if he wore a sunset draped over his spine. They carried the bright colours and velvet softness of his Fairy heritage. The shape and number of them, however, were evidence by the Goblin blood in his veins.

        Why he had chosen to visit Roothaven to deliver the letters instead of letting the postal service handle it was a question no one was willing to ask him directly. There was a smattering of surprise that Sonny, consort and fiance to Princess Dawn, had an aunt and cousins living among them. When asked about it they shrugged, claiming that they never considered it something necessary to be shared.

        Bog Prince was friendly enough and they soon found a level of ease with his presence. He stayed at the inn, paid well, and spent his days learning the daily life of the people. Although clumsy and unused to their style of life, he offered help where he could in an eager attempt to learn what he could from them.

        Nearly a fortnight into his visit, the hunter came with her bag of goods. She favoured her left side and a breeze showed the hem of her leggings were pushed up to let the bandage wrapped around her calf breath. She made her usual trades and turned to leave the village when Bog Prince stepped in her way and a hush fell over the town.  
It was their unspoken rule to stay out of her way. Although no reason was given to believe she posed a threat, they threaded carefully to avoid upsetting the hunter. Someone who could handle the vicious Deadlands would not break a sweat taking out a few farmhands.

        “Ah have nae seen ye before.” Bog Prince hunched over the figure, peering into the shadows of her hood. Her hand tightened around her bag, but she made no mood to step away. “What’s ye name? Do ye live nearby?”

        The hunter gave him no answer, merely sidestepping to resume her journey out of the village. The villagers watched with bated breath as Bog Prince turned to watch her walk away. When he did not immediately follow they let out a breath of relief.

        “Well, that’s rude.” Bog Prince reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, turning her to face him with a sharp tug. “Ah do’nae know where ye come from, but where Ah come from, it’s good manners to at least make an excuse before blowin’ someone off.”

        The hunter lifted her head, the wan light of the sun piercing the shadows of her hood enough to bare the sharp teeth that bared in silent warning. Her gloved hand reached up and brushed his away.

        “Interestin’.” Having grown up surrounded by his father’s people as well as his mother’s, the sight of the sharp teeth did not phase him. It was the burgundy stain of berry on her lips that threw him off. His hand rose to brush against her chin, fingers rough against smooth skin that felt far too soft to be goblin, before he realised what he had done and stepped back. “Sorry. Sorry, but really, what are ye?”

        Her mouth closed, full lips pressing together as she stared up at him from within the shadows of the cloak. There was no warning before her fist met his abdomen, the force of it making him take another step back and knocking the wind from his lungs. Before he could collect himself again she moved, spiralling down and swinging a leg to sweep him off his feet.

        The gasp of fear rippled through the crowd as they watched, to afraid to step in.

        The hunter straightened and moved forward, placing her boot at his throat. She applied pressure, enough to slow his breathing but not stop it. A silent warning that he heard loud and clear this time.

        “Ah get it, ah get it.” He croaked up at her, eyes wide and heart racing in overtime. “No touchin’. Right. Was rude of me.”  
Her head bobbed once, a short nod, before she removed her boot. Her hand appeared and he hesitated for a second before accepting her help in getting to his feet. Her dark lips curved into a smile before she brushed by him.

        “Sire?” A fairy approached once the hunter and reached the end of the street and turned towards the Deadlands. “Are you alright?”

        “Wow.” Shaking himself from his daze, he cleared his throat and turned away from her figure to see the concern on the face of the youth. “R-right, Ah’m okay.”

        His gaze slipped back towards the road, following the mysterious figure.

        “So…” His hand rose to rub at his throat where her boot had been a minute before. “Who was that, exactly?”


	2. Communication

        The bandage resisted her careful thugs, clinging to the drying blood that sealed it to her wound. She took a deep breath and yanked, forcing it free and grimacing as the wound opened further. It would need cleaned again before she could wrap it with fresh bandaging. Scooting her chair closer to the table, she felt around for the clean rag and the bowl of warm water.

        The one thing that brought Chêl comfort as she carefully cleaned the wound was the knowledge that the sharp claws that had torn into her were harmless now. The beast had been slain and his body put to good use - some of it currently cooking in a bubbling pot of stew over her fire.

        It was her own fault, really, that she had been injured to begin with. She had been too relaxed as she finished off the beast caught in her trap to realise its mate was nearby. Then she had to go and open the wound again, knocking the hybrid on his ass in the village.

        Her thoughts strayed to the unfamiliar stranger. People who lived within Roothaven were curious about her, but their apprehension of her usually had them keeping their distance. Chêl had to admit it was a bit lonely, to be avoided so, but it was what she was used to. She had been alone for years now and socialisation was not exactly her forte.

        Yet the stranger had not shared their fear of her. She wondered if it was because he was a stranger among them himself, an outsider who wandered in for whatever reasons. There had been no fear in him as he questioned her, as he touched her. Not even flat on his back with her boot at his throat.

        What a strange creature.

        Chêl had never seen anything quite like him before. His appearance made her think of a predator. The sharpness of his features, vaguely reminding her of dead leaves, spoke of camouflage. Long limbs, lanky and light. With his sharp teeth and natural body armor, he would be a fierce predator.

        Instead he was an overly friendly, curious weirdo. Strange indeed.

        As she dabbed the poultice into her freshly cleaned wound, she recalled the strange feel of his fingertips against her chin. She could not recall the last time someone had touched her, but his was unique. His fingertips had been softer than she expected, though still coarse. It reminded her a little of bark not yet worn smooth.

        Brushing thoughts of the irritating stranger away, Chêl cleaned the poultice off her fingers with a splash in her water bowl and began to wrap her leg. She tied off the bandage and intended to pull the pot away from the fire and dish out a bowel for herself when a sound stopped her short.

_Thump, thump, thump._

        She sighed as she reached for her cloak and tugged it on. With the clasp secured at her throat and the hood pulled over her head, she felt comfortable enough to deal with whoever had dared to knock at her door. If her leg had not ached so she would have slid out the back door and taken to the roof to scare them off, but instead she went for the direct route.

        It was not the quivering youth that she expected at the door to her hut, but the tall stranger with the sunset wings and too-blue eyes.

        “They said ye lived up here and Ah-” She did not give him time to finish. The door slammed closed and she turned back to clear away her medical supplies.

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_

        Chêl shot the door an irritated glare. He had not taken her less than subtle hint.

        “Ah’m nae leaving until ye talk to me.” He cheerfully threatened through the door. “So ye might as well open up!”

        Over-friendly, irritating idiot. She was sorely tempted to ignore him, but a distant howl had her edging back towards the door. It was not close enough to the rains for many predators to be out hunting, but one was enough for someone caught unaware. After she had taken him down so easily in Roothaven, Chêl did not have high hopes he would make it if one caught wind of him.

        “That sounded close.” The bugger spoke casually, as if commenting on something as mundane as the shape of a cloud.

        It was not her job to protect anyone foolish enough to travel into the Deadlands, especially at night when the predators were most lethal. Yet she pushed herself to hut more frequently to prevent the predators from straying too close to the border. She scared off the youth who dared each other to sneak around her home. She opened her door to yank in blue-eyed idiots who did not have enough sense to know better than to be out in the Deadlands after dark.

        Once he was inside and the door closed, she turned her back on him to clean up the medical supplies. As hard as she tried to ignore him, she was overly aware of his presence. Chêl’s home had always been adequate, cozy for two, but roomy for one, yet she felt the creeping rise of claustrophobia at having someone else there. It had been too long since someone had crossed the threshold of her home.

        “What’s this?” His question drew her eyes away from the table long enough to see that he was examining a snapping trap she needed to repair. With a quiet sigh she tossed the dirty bandages into a bin on her way over to smack his hand away from the trap.

        Too late did she realise that she forgot to pull her gloves back on. His eyes lingered on her hands. Pale and peachy at the wrist, the warm colour faded into a dusty grey along her knuckles that darkened further to black at her fingertips. Startled she shoved her hands into her cloak to hide them and pivoted away.

 _‘Don’t let them see, my dearest. It’s safer this way.’_ Her father’s voice echoed from deep within her memories. Tears sprung to her eyes and she tried to blink them away.

        “Sorry.” The stranger’s voice, deeper than her father’s had been, drew her back to the present. He father was gone, but she had someone in her home. “Ah feel like we got off to a bad start back at Roothaven so let’s try this again. Ah’m the Bog Prince. Pleased to meet you?”

        He paused, waiting for her to speak. Social decorum, what little she knew of it, prompted her to offer her name in return. She sucked in a breath and let it out slowly before turning. His smiled, but it fell as she shook her head.

        “Oh, well. Ah was told ye weren’t the friendly sort. Ah’m sorry to have bothered ye.” His wings fluttered slightly, the sound soft and low. “It’s just-”

        Bog Prince stopped when she lifted a hand and shook her head once more. Swallowing past the awkwardness she motioned to herself and then opened and closed her mouth. After a moment she tapped her fingertip against her closed lips. He watched her motions, eyes tracking her hands before they lifted to her eyes.

        “Ye don’t speak. Or ye can’nae.” She swore she saw his cheeks darken. “That explains why ye have nae spoken to the villagers.”

        She shrugged at that. Communication with Roothaven had been awkward from the start. Their wide, fearful eyes did little to make her feel welcome. It only encouraged her to finish her trading faster and to leave as quickly as she could. Only the youth made any attempts to speak with her, but their parents drew them away.

        “Can ye write?” Bog Prince took a seat at her table. He lifted the small poultice bowl and gave it a sniff. His features screwed up and he set the bowl down and shoved it away, clearly displeased with the scent. “What is this stuff?”

        Chêl’s lips quirked up in a smile she could not repress. He was a strange sort, poking around in her business as if she were nothing to fear. His curiosity appeared to override his senses and temporarily made him forget she could not communicate if he were not looking her way.

        Bog Prince. The name suddenly hit her and she swallowed. Moving forward she tapped hard against the table to draw his attention before touching her thumbs together and pointer fingers to make a circle that she motioned over her head with.

        “Ah do nae…” He paused as his brows drew together as he puzzled over her gestures. She pointed at him before repeating the circle. “Me, crown… Ah do nae get what ye are trying to say.”

        Of course he did not. They practically spoke two different languages. With a huff she held up a finger to bid him to wait as she moved to the back to dig through a chest. Shifting aside leathers and fabric, she set aside worn books until she found a roll of yellowed paper. Leaving behind everything else, she crossed over to a shelf to pluck a piece of charcoal from its basket.

 **BOG PRINCE. SON OF THE DARK FOREST’S BOG KING?** Her handwriting was messy from disuse, but the delight on the Bog Prince’s face let her know that he understood her message.

        “That’s right.” He shifted in his seat, his eyes darting from the paper to her face. His long fingers flexed restlessly in his lap before he spoke again. “Ah don’t expect ye to treat me any different than ye’d treat someone else. Ah’m nae here as a prince.”

**WHY ARE YOU HERE?**

        “Ah’ll tell you if you tell me your name.” His grin lit his eyes up further and she bit back a growl of irritation. Happy-go-lucky, overly friendly, irritating idiot that he was, he seemed insistent on befriending her for some reason.

**CHÊL**

        “Right then, nice to meet ye, Chêl.” He beamed and she had a sinking feeling that she would never be rid of him now.

 


	3. An Offer of Friendship

        For someone who could pack quite a punch, her hands were dainty. He had not noticed it at first, distracted as he was by the odd colouration. There was a certain gracefulness in the way she moved them. The curve of her fingers or tilt of her wrist as she tried to convey her message with hand gestures. The steady hold she had on the charcoal when she resorted to writing in the messy, almost childlike scrawl of hers.

        It was bewildering. What he saw of her now was ad odds with what he had known before.

        The village had told him everything they knew about her. How she came to trade with them and what she offered. The silence they feared to break. No one had known her name, where she had come from, or even what she was. The only way they even knew where she lived was because some reckless teenagers had goaded each other into following her home.

        He had been warned she was dangerous. The shorter woman had taken him down without hesitation in only two moves. She survived, alone, in the Deadlands. He wondered just how well she would fair in an actual fight with him. Someone who survived in the wasteland could prove a decent opponent.

        Bog Prince felt an excitement heat his blood in a way it had not in years. This was new. A mystery to be pieced together and solved.

        He knew every inch of the Dark Forest and the Fairy Kingdom. He knew the palace life and the lives of the people in his parents kingdom. It all blurred together in his mind. Familiar places, familiar people, and he was bored with it.

        With the shape of her name still on his lips, he knew more than her neighbours in Roothaven ever had.

        “Ah grew up hearin’ about the adventures my parents had.” Bog Prince turned his gaze to her parchment and her hands, watching her strange fingers tapping against the table as she listened. “They are nae the type to sit by and do nothing - which is what Ah was doing and why Ah decided to do some travelling.”

         **ROOTHAVEN IS HARDLY AN ADVENTURE.**

        “Ye are nae wrong.” There was not much to differentiate it from any other village along the border. “But Ah feel like Ah’ve found the start of one.”

        Chêl’s hands stilled and she offered him no response. His eyes rose to the shadows of her hood and in the flickering light of her hearth fire he could see the amused curl of her lips. Embarrassment creeped up hard on him, digging its claws into his veins and he coughed.

        “Th-that came out cheesier than Ah meant it to be.” He swallowed and bit the inside of his cheek, wondering what she thought of him now. Chêl likely considered him a downright fool and, in retrospect, that would not surprise him. He had done little but show himself to be a fool.

        **IDIOT.**

        That confirmed her opinion of him.

         **GO HOME TO YOUR PALACE. THIS IS NO PLACE FOR YOU. THIS IS NO PLAYGROUND.**

        “Ah can handle myself just fine.” Bog Prince's pride bristled at the insult, he lifted his chin and narrowed his eyes at her in an imitation of his father’s intimidating glare. “Fight me and Ah’ll prove it.”

         **WHAT? NOW?**  Her quickly scrawled words made him choke back laughter. Did she really think he meant for her to fight him in the middle of her house? **NO WAY. I DON’T WANT TO CLEAN UP MY HOUSE AFTER I BEAT YOU. AGAIN.**

        “Now now, ye caught me off guard last time.” He drawled as he reached over to stop her before she could scribble down a counter. Her hand froze and tightened against the charcoal. “Believe me, next time will be different, but Ah think outside would be a better venue. In the daylight as well.”

        Chêl’s hood bobbed as she dropped her gaze. He could almost feel her gaze on his hand. His eyes widened in memory of her attack in Roothaven and he withdrew his hand, pressing his back against the chair as if the extra space between them could make up for him violating her personal bubble again.

        “Sorry about that! Ah was just trying to stop ye from rambling on.” He covered up his nerves with a smile. “Cause that was pretty embarrassing for ye, thinking that Ah’d want a fight here and now.”

         **SOD OFF.** She bared her teeth at him, but he felt no hint of threat. How threatening could it be when she was still writing?  **WHO DO YOU THINK YOU ARE?**

        “Ah told ye, Ah’m the Bog Prince.” Feeling a bit more at ease he peeled his spine away from the chair and tapped a finger against the rough lines of his name on her paper.

         **ARE YOU TRYING TO MAKE AN ENEMY?**

        “Nae, Ah’m trying to make a friend.” Chel had no reply to that. She just stared at him. At least, he thought she might be. The hood made it hard to tell. “What do you say, Chel?”

         **NO.**

        “Have you considered ‘Yes?’” He watched as she underlined the rejection with a sharp jerk of her hand. Not exactly promising, but she was not stabbing him or throwing him out of her house so he doubted she truly meant it. “Ah’m going to take that as a yes.”

  
         **NO. NOT HAPPENING.** The charcoal crumbled a little with the force she used to write the words.

        “And why is that?” He planted his elbow against the table and leaned his chin against his hand as he peered at her. Without better lighting he could not make out more than the curve of her jaw and fullness of her lips within the shadows of the hood so he let his eyes wander. They moved over the stitching holding the leather together, along the lines that draped over her shoulders.

        It moved as she wrote, the layers rippling and settling. Each the shape of a petal or a wing. The darkness splitting away to reveal vibrant colours. A unique design, one he thought could fare well within the noble district surrounding the fairy palace in warmer weather.

        Did she make it herself? Anti-social as she was, there was no need for her to make a fashion statement. Bog Prince had to wonder what the point of it was. He added that to his growing list of questions about her.

         **I DON’T HAVE FRIENDS.** Chêl finally wrote, the scratching sound drawing his attention back to the paper. After a moment she reconsidered and crossed out a word to replace it with another and change the meaning entirely. **I DON’T NEED FRIENDS.**

        “Really? ‘Cause Ah do nae believe that for a second.” She bared her teeth at him again and he could not hold back his laugh. She was a prickly one. “Ah know some people who were like that.”

         **I DON’T CARE. THEY HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH ME.**

        “Perhaps nae, but they thought they were better off alone. Stronger on their own.” Bog Prince kept his eyes away from the paper although he could hear her scribbling. For someone without a voice, she certainly had quite a bit to say. “Pushed everyone away, kept to themselves. Ye wanna know what happened to them?”

        She shook her head no and angrily pointed down at the paper. When he did not look she lifted it in front of his face and jabbed her charcoal covered finger against it.

        “Ah’m not reading that.” He shoved the paper aside. “Those two people, they were enemies ye know, but ye would nae think so if ye met them now. They’re happily married and surrounded by friends.”

         **GROSS.** The letters were too big to miss.

        “Very, but they’re better off for it.” He tapped his finger against a word on the paper, smearing the black letters. “Ah’m here to make friends with ye and Ah’m not backing down.”

         **WHY?**

        “Ah’ll tell you tomorrow.” Bog Prince hopped to his feet and stretched, his body creaking as he did. He offered her a smile when her head shifted to follow his movements. “We can have our fight then, too.”

        Her shadow followed him to the door and once his feet left the ground he turned to her. Chêl stopped in the doorway, hand rising to hold her hood in place as she tilted her head upwards to keep him in her view. Her free hand cut through the light streaming out of her house.

        Him, hand flat and extended outwards, then to herself and her house. Her message was clear enough, given their conversation. Chêl did not want him to visit her again. Bog Prince hummed thoughtfully at her, his smile widening when she started to repeat the gesture.

        “Protest all ye like,” Bog Prince darted forward to catch her hand, immediately releasing it afterwards. “Ah’ll see you tomorrow, Chêl.”

        The rock she flung at his back stung, but he found himself laughing on his flight back to Roothaven. The entire visit could have gone far worse and, despite her protests, he had a good feeling about that the next visit would go even better.


	4. Hit Me With Your Best Shot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These two nerds spar.
> 
> Also I'm not dead and plan to update ALL my fics asap.

      Dawn in the Deadlands had a strange sort of beauty. Although the sun hid behind the mountains in the east for quite some time, its rays spread colour through the sky and painted it in a wash of pinks and oranges. The morning breeze would sweep dust into the air, swirling in the early-morning light giving the barren wasteland a near magical peacefulness.

      Chêl tore off a piece of bread and tossed it into her mouth as she watched the colours of dawn slowly fading behind the mountains. It brought back memories, as it always did, of her father holding her as he named the colours off to her or pointed out some of the animals that edged out of their dens to feed before the sun drew too high.

      When he had first started showing her the dawn was a memory she no longer had, but it became a tradition of theirs. Even as he had aged and fallen ill, he still found the strength to watch the morning light up the land. Even after he lost the strength to carry her up there. Even after she had to carry him up there.

      They watched the dawn together until one morning they could not.

      The colours and peace of the dawn would never leave her, even if it had become bittersweet. It was painted vivid against her eyelids, warming the corners of her thoughts.

      Even after the final goodbyes to her father, she had carried on their tradition.

      Once the final hints of pink and orange faded to a dusty blue Chêl found her feet again. She clasped her hands together and stretched, arching her back and letting out a breath of air as the tightness of her body slowly eased away. Twisting to left, then to the right had the kinks in her spine release with nearly audible pops.

      “Hey!” The voice that hailed her made her stiffen all over again. “Good mornin’ Chêl.”

      With a heavy sigh she carefully turned, placing her back to the mountains and eyed the grey male that approached. Her eyes shifted to his wings, watching the strange way they fluttered as he approached. He offered a little way and a smile that turned self-conscious as she offered none in return.

      Bog Prince’s visit the night before had been a mixed bag for her. Chêl was used to the quiet of solitude, broken only by a wayward youth visiting during the early hours of the night or her treks down to the village. Having someone approach her as if she were nothing to be feared, smiling and chatting as if he could be her friend.

      She offered him a small wave, the most she could give this early in the morning before turning and walking off her roof. The flutter of his wings came closer, hurried and she heard something near a squeak of concern before a hand caught her wrist. Her drop came to a jarring stop and the jerk immediately made her arm ache to the shoulder.

      What a bother.

      “Ah realise ye do’nae like me much, but jumping off ye roof is hardly-” His words were cut off with a yelp as she found his thumb and yanked it back. His grip released and she let go. Air caught her cloak, fluffing the layers and slowing her fall enough for her land semi-gracefully near her door. “Oh.”

      The look she shot him was venomous though he could not see it with her hood firmly in place.

      “Sorry. Ah did’nae realise…” He sighed and lowered himself to the ground, his sagging wings still twitching with nervous tension.

      Unused to the concern, Chêl’s hand tightened into a fist at her side. With her other hand she gave his shoulder a pat in an effort to let him know she understood. There had been no ill will, no desire to do anything but give her aid where he thought she needed it.

      She pulled her hand back and tucked it beneath her cloak. It rendered her unable to communicate, but her thoughts were too much of a mess to narrow it down into concise gestures he would understand.

      She was not used to someone worrying over her well-being and did not like the feeling that it gave her.

      “So, what’s the plan for today?” Bog Prince’s voice followed her into her house, along with his tall and lanky body.

      Resigning herself to the imposed company, at least for the time being, she held up a finger to request a moment before waving airily towards a chair. He sunk down into the seat and she turned away to collect her knives. Two small ones were tucked away into a slim sheath at her ankle. A larger one strapped to her thigh with buckles and snaps. A final, already sheathed blade was tucked between her breasts.

      It felt odd, to be gearing up with someone watching. She could feel his eyes as if they were a physical weight. Lingering on her frame even after her cloak closed to block his view.

      “So, ye are a girl.” His statement was met with a glare and, to her surprise, his face turned apologetic and darkened as he avoided her gaze. “Ah’m sorry, but they said ye were and it’s hard to tell with the cloak.”

      Chêl shrugged at that. There was nothing she could say in response. It did not matter to her if anyone knew her gender. Ever since the whole love potion ordeal and Queen Marianne’s coronation, women in previously masculine dominated roles became more commonplace.

      “Not that Ah meant anything by it. It’s fine that ye are a girl. Hunters can be girls too.” He rambled, his hands moving aimlessly and without any meaning. She bit the inside of her cheek as she watched, trying not to laugh. There was something endearingly childlike about his mannerisms. “Just, uh, just that Ah don’t really know much about ye. Like, why do ye wear that cloak? Do ye ever take it off?”

      Her blood froze and she wrapped her arms around herself. Her foot slid backwards without her realising, putting distance between herself and her house guest.

      Never take it off. Her father had warned her when he draped her first cloak over her shoulders. It protects you. You’re safe as long as you keep covered.

      “Ah’m not trying to take it from ye.” Bog Prince took his own step back and held up his hands so she could clearly see them. “Ah’m not asking ye to remove it. It was just a question. Just curiosity.”

      Was it? The cold crackled in her veins, silent to all but her, as she slowly lowered her arms. Her hands went to the cloak and fingers caught the layers. With every pluck and pinch at the leather she felt her heart easing, just a little bit. He made no move towards her. He just rambled on, apologising profusely for upsetting her.

      He shut his mouth the moment she released her cloak and lifted her hands. She straightened one hand out and curled the other in a fist. The smack of her fist against her hand did not even make a sound, but his eyes followed her every movement as she pointed at the straightened hand and then back at her cloak.

      She could have gone for the paper and charcoal and explained it in words. She could have spilled out her entire life’s story to tell him why she wore her cloak, but instead she limited herself. She chose to leave those questions simmering in his eyes even as he understood now at least one reason why she wore the cloak.

      It was armour to protect her. A wall to keep things away. From what, he could only guess at because she was not about to spill more.

      Bog Prince had a funny way of putting her on edge and yet at ease. It was terrifying.

      “Okay, Ah get it.” She heard it as a lie. He may understand the basic idea, but without knowing her reasons he would never truly get it. “It’s really neat though. The design. Ah’ve never seen anything like it. Ye make it yeself?”

      She nodded and turned away to grab a basket. A repaired trap went into it as well as some dried foods. After a hesitant moment and a glance towards the male she tucked some extra food in case he insisted on tagging along.

      Chêl told herself it was merely a precaution. Some of the vegetation deeper into the Deadlands were unsafe for consumption and it would be a pain in the arse to have to heal him and a bigger pain to drag his dying body somewhere it would not be a problem.

      It certainly was not because she gave a damn.

      “So where are we going?”

      He was a chatty one, she realised once more as she glanced at him. Always asking questions, always watching her for an answer. It was a stark contrast to the way the villagers treated her. They spoke in quick sentences, expecting no answers, if they ever spoke to her at all.

      It was like he did not get that she was a loner. That she preferred the silence. That she could not give him the companionship, the communication that he sought after.

      Yet there he was, lanky and tall in her home, watching her expectantly. Bog Prince had wanted to fight and likely would try following her afterwards. If she did not get rid of him now then she wondered if she ever would be able to.

      She would have to knock some sense into him and send him limping back to Roothaven.

      It was for the best, even if there was a tiny part of her that cringed at the thought. There was no room in her silence, in her shadows for friendship and she buried the little voice inside of her that suggested otherwise.

      Chêl turned away from him and towards the door, expecting him to follow and he did not let her down. She heard him close the door behind him as she set her basket down on a makeshift table in her yard.

      “Chêl?” She turned back towards his questioning voice and took a few step backwards, sidestepping the makeshift table. He followed, eyes on her and only stopped when she did. She shifted, widening her stance and raising her fists to make her intentions clear and the smile that spread across his face was somehow both sunny and dark at the same time.

      If he wanted a fight, that was what he was going to get.

      “Ah’m sure you’re a real tough cookie with a long history,” There was a slight change in his posture and suddenly the goof in front of her looked every inch the predatory warrior that goblinkind were known to be. “Of smacking hopeful hearts like the one in me.”

      Even if he looked the part, Chêl could see that the goof remained underneath it all.

      “That’s okay. Let’s see how ye do it.” His hand went to his waist and hers followed suit, noticing the blade strapped to his hip for the first time. “Put up your dukes, let’s get down to it.”

      Bog Prince made the first move, his sword swinging free of the sheath with a sharp sound and she only had enough time to yank the dagger from her thigh to meet his hit. He pressed against her, testing her strength.

      Although she had no way to know how much he might be holding back, Chêl filed away the knowledge that he was strong. Stronger than he looked. She may not be able to win against him with sheer strength so she angled her blade, causing his to slide off hers with the hiss of metal.

      Chêl ducked under his arm, catching his ankle with her foot and throwing him off balance. An elbow to his spine shot pain through her arm and sent him stumbling forward.

      Right, not a weakspot. Despite the vibrant wings, he was half-goblin and had inherited a hard carapace. She would have to avoid hitting him directly until she found the spots in the armour that gave way to softer, more venerable flesh.

      “That’s all ye got?” Bog Prince took advantage of the fall, rolling to put some distance between them and regaining his footing in the same mood.

      Chêl was beginning to realise that her initial impressions of Bog Prince were wrong. He was an idiot of a sort, his insistence on befriending her served as stone-hard evidence of that, but he was not the pampered prince she initially thought. Between his strength and dexterity he was beginning to show her and the way he parried her next strikes, it was clear that he had been trained fairly well to fight.

      “Hit me with your best shot.” Bog Prince half sang the taunt as he darted towards her. His sword met her dagger and she had to leap backwards, ducking the blade as it swung free to avoid his leg. “Why don’t you hit me with your best shot? Hit me with your best shot. Fire away.”

      He was really, really asking for it and she could not suppress the grin that spread across her face and bared her sharp teeth.

      Their blades met again and again until her ears were ringing with the sound of metal against metal beneath the rapid beat of her heart. His reach was better than hers and she grudgingly admitted that gave him the advantage when it came to swordplay.

      So she changed tactics, darting backwards before kicking her feet up. Dirt flew into her face and she caught the ground with her hands for a split second before pushing off. She wasted no time in taking advantage of the momentary advantage as he coughed and tried to wipe the dirt from his eyes. Flipping back onto his feet, she ducked a blind swipe with his sword and slammed her fist upwards and into his chin.

      “Ye come on with it, come on, ye don’t fight fair.” Kicking dirt in his eyes was hardly fair but she wanted to laugh with how well it worked. He abandoned his blade, a good thing since swinging blindly could leave to real injuries for either of them, and switched to hand to hand. “That’s okay. See if Ah care.”

      Again, he had the advantage of reach but she was smaller and quicker. Ducking and sidestepping his fists were easy enough and gaining distance or closing in on him took mere moments. If he used his wings for more than a speedboost, the fight might turn in his favour given how clear her front yard was of things she could use to reach him, but he kept his feet on the ground.

      Somehow the thought of kicking his ass to send him limping back to Roothaven slipped from her mind behind the thrill of their combat. She would be sore later, speckled with bruises, but the adrenaline she felt was almost euphoric. It was not like the rush she got as she faced against a Deadland predator, edged by the very real fear that death was a possibility if she slipped up.

      This rush was pleasant. Fun, if she had to assign such a word to it.

      That being said, she was still determined to win. She barely took more than a second to breath, constantly moving. Her cloak never settled against her, creating a whirlwind of colourful movement that hid the cues her body gave to her attacks.

      Against an inexperienced combatant, they would stand no chance. Bog Prince either had the luck of the devil or had enough skill to catch at least some of the cues hidden behind the colourful movements of her cloak.

      Bog Prince caught her fist, the grin returning to his face as he yanked her forward. He missed the second one, taking that to the gut and released a hiss of pained air and a strained laugh.

      “That the best ye got?” He goaded her seconds before she went sailing over his shoulder and into the dirt behind him.

      It was her turn to have the air knocked out of her lungs and Bog Prince did not give her time to shake the daze from her head before he turned and she saw his foot coming down towards her head. Chêl scrambled to roll out of the way and onto her hands and knees. She got her feet underneath her and launched herself at his legs to throw him to the dirt.

      Chêl flipped away from him, landing in a crouch as she watched her downed opponent right himself. She took the opportunity to catch her breath and access the fight.

      He was lasting longer than he expected and with every hit he avoided or took and every hit she had to dodge or take in return she found a measure of respect growing within her. Still, the sun was rising higher and she had work to do so she knew she had to end it soon.

      Her hand slid to her boot, freeing one of the blades. Bog Prince was on his feet again, somewhat unsteady, and before he could fully orientate himself she launched forward again. He stumbled back a step as he caught her, half-expecting the attack, but he did not expect her leg to come around and catch him in the back of the knees. They both went down, hard.

      The flurry and activity ceased, dust settling around them as her cloak stilled against her heated body. The Bog Prince stared up at her, blue eyes wide. Her knees rested on either side of his hips, weight on him as one of her hidden daggers lay against his throat.

      His eyes remained locked on her face, the shadows hiding the details. He could make out the curve of her berry-stained lips, slightly parted as she caught her breath. His eyes followed the curve of her jaw into the shadows of the cloak.

      The morning sun was still too weak and the angle of it only deepened the shadows blocking most of her face from him. His hands twitched but he resisted the impulse to reach up and move that hood. The dagger at his throat and the memory of the sharp movements, her telling him it was her shield, had him bury the thought.

      “Ye win.” He offered instead with a grin that widened her own and for a moment he was struck breathless again.

      It had nothing to do with the juxtaposition of sharp teeth and the curve of full, colourful lips or the sudden realisation that there was a woman he hardly knew straddling him.

      Chêl moved the dagger away from his throat only to run the tip of it against his chin. The metal was cold and the sensation of it against his skin so gentle that it nearly felt like a caress. She was just lording it over him, she thought as she got off of him and slipped the blade back into it’s place in her boot. It had nothing to do with how blue his eyes were in his grey skin or how he stared at her as if she were some magnificent creature.

      She retrieved the dagger abandoned earlier in the fight and returned it to it’s place at her thigh before scooping up his blade and offering it to him. His long fingers closed over her gloved hand and she gave him a nervous, half smile before turning away to collect her basket.

      Bog Prince was still an insufferable fool barking up the wrong tree in search of friendship, but at least know she knew he was one who could handle himself in a fight. With that knowledge in her mind, she did nothing to stop him when he began to follow her deeper into the Deadlands.


	5. A Little Closer

      The area immediately surrounding Chêl’s modest home still carried some signs of life with it’s general proximity to the neighbouring kingdom. The colours there were dulled, but there were still some greens scattered amongst the rocks and dry soil, but the further away they walked the less of that greenery Bog Prince saw.

      The terrain grew rougher as Chêl’s home grew smaller in the distance behind them and though Bog Prince could simply fly, he chose instead to follow in her footsteps.

      She glanced backwards and though he could not be sure exactly where she was looking, he thought he could feel her eyes on him.

      Being the son of Marianne and Bog King had gotten him fairly used to being looked at. Some gazes lingered, some darted past, but they all looked. It was the nature of being a half-breed, not fully belonging to either kingdom and sharing the blood of each.

      For a moment he wondered if she thought his appearance in Roothaven and subsequent near obsession with befriending her spoke of political drives. Perhaps she thought that he, as the son of royals, were visiting to scope out the area with intentions of reporting back the viability of a possible claim. The thought crossed his mind only to be brushed aside with a scoff.

      Chêl might see some worth in the Deadlands since it was her home, but neither kingdom cared about the territory. The ground was too rocky to make terraforming it easy even if the weather and beasts were not a factor. The kingdoms would not benefit from expanding into the Deadlands, though Bog Prince could see some value in sending some troops over to keep predators from crossing the border. Unless the predators became more of a threat to the residents of the neighbouring villages he doubted any force would be expended.

      What she thought of him was hardly a mystery. The word IDIOT had been written, bold and messy on her aged parchment the night before. He hoped that, at the very least, their heated spar had added a little something more to her opinion of him - a measure of respect, of some sort.

      One thing he did know was that despite her adamant rejection of his offer of friendship, she was clearly not as opposed to it as she played. She might have slammed the door in his face and only let him in because of the distant howling of some predator, but she had gone through the effort of finding a way to communicate with him.

      If she had not wanted friendship then she would have avoided him this morning, yet she had been a shadow on her roof as the sun rose. She had offered him a smile and let him follow her deeper into the Deadlands.

      Bog Prince suspected - no, he knew that she was lonely and wondered at that. Chêl was a mystery, cloaked in shadows with the lips of a fairy and teeth of a goblin, but he was proof that a mix of features did not necessarily warrant solitude.

      The citizens of Roothaven held both fear and respect for her, but they also knew very little about the mute hunter. They did not avoid her outright and Bog Prince had a feeling that, given time and some effort, they would open up and accept her.

      Yet Chêl insisted she did not need friends and remained isolated.

      Why did she let him as close as she did? Close enough to see just a bit past the shadows hiding her. For a moment he felt a surge of pride to know that he had managed something no one else had before a wiggling voice of doubt deflated him. He knew her name and where she hid her blades. That hardly constituted as a closeness he could be proud of.

      Part of him wished he could talk to his aunt Dawn or uncle Sunny about it. Neither of them had any trouble making friends. Even after the fiasco of the Love Potion Incident, Sunny was well liked among the elves and most of the fairy kind. Dawn had always been rather popular with her outgoing nature and bright smiles. If anyone knew how to make friends, it’d be the two of them.

      He was too much like his parents in the end to know the finesse and decorum Dawn and Sunny had with such things so he did what his parents did and rushed, bull-headed, into things.

      “What are we doing?” With the lack of clear view of her face, he was left with studying her body language to read her reaction. Her shoulders tensed as she inclined her head towards him. The light spread over the lower half of her face and her lips pressed into a thin line of irritation.

      Rather than bother raising her gloved hands from beneath her cloak she turned her direction back to the path and kept walking. A minute later she veered towards the left and knelt down beside near a spiky, dead looking shrub. Placing her basket next to her before she began picking at the ground. She set aside rocks and brushed aside dirt and leaves before reaching into her basket to pull out the trap tucked within it.

      “Oh, Ah see.” He knelt down to get a better view as Chêl nestled the trap into the space she cleared and gently rearranged the dirt, rocks, and dried leaves to mostly hide it from view. As she pried the trap apart and set it aside, Bog Prince found himself watching what little he could of her face. “So this is how you keep the predators from getting closer to Roothaven, aye?”

      Chêl gave a short nod before rising to her feet and brushing the dust off her gloves. He scooped up the basket for her before following her once more as she continued her trek into the Deadlands. Every once in a while she would kneel down, revealing the presence of a trap he had not noticed before moving on.

      “Why do ye do this?” He asked after she cleared the corpse of a small, feral looking predator from one of her traps. The hunter worked quickly to free the dead critter, reset and cover her trap. The body she held by its tail as she crouch-walked over the ground, poking it occasionally before finding a spot soft enough to bury the creature.

      The hunter did not attempt to answer him until the body was buried and rocks were placed over the grave to keep other animals from digging it up. Once that was done she returned to his side and took the basket from him. A quick dive in revealed a waterskin which she used to rinse off her gloves before she pointed towards the shadow cast by a curved, leafless tree.

      “Are ye going to answer me or nae?” Bog Prince asked once they were seated in the shade, basket between them. She inclined her head, gazing at him in silence before leaning forward. The touch of her gloved fingers against his wings sent spread through his body and he barely suppressed full-body shudder at the sensation.

      It took him an embarrassing amount of time to recollect himself and for a moment he had forgotten what the question was. Bog Prince cleared his throat and pulled his gaze away from her and towards the traps they had checked on the way there as he puzzled over her answer.

      Wings. Not his wings, since they had only recently just met. Hers, if she had any? No, that did not feel quite right. She had no need to spread herself so thin, to cover so much ground if she was hunting and trapping the predators only for herself. All she had to do was keep the lands surrounding her home safe.

      “For Roothaven.” He turned his gaze back to her but her chin was tucked out of sight and she was rifling through the basket. “All this trouble is for Roothaven. To protect them. Why?”

      Chêl made no move to answer. Instead she shoved a skin of water into his hands along with some bread. Bog Prince figured that was as close to a answer he would get from the silent woman. Isolated and prickly as she was, it was clear to him that she had a good heart.

  
      “Have ye always been alone here?” The question made her stiffen and he felt a spike of regret. The question must have been too much, too personal and he opened his mouth to apologise when she shook her head.

      No, her body language told him. One, her finger indicated before she returned to ripping her own piece of bread apart.

      It made sense. Chêl’s house was a bit on the spacious side for a single person and though he had no idea how old she was, it was a bit of a stretch to believe she had built it herself. The town made no mention of anyone else being seen with her, so he could only guess who that might have been and where they disappeared to.

      There was a part of him that felt odd knowing that someone had once been close to her. He might know a hint of the full measure of her smile in her name, but someone else might know her full face and the way amusement changed it.

  
      Bog Prince could not be sure what he felt, but it was something like pressure in his chest. A squeeze of discontent as he glanced over at her. Whoever it was, they were gone now and it left enough of a scar on Chêl’s heart to make her think that she was better off on her own.

      “What’s it like living out here in the Deadlands?” The change in subject made the tightness in her shoulders loosen and allowed him to pull his thoughts away from the question mark that was her past.   
  
      Chêl humoured his change of subject. Quiet, she mimed by placing her hands over her ears. She tossed a piece of bread into her mouth and chewed thoughtfully before raising a finger and pointing to him.

      “Ah divide my time between kingdoms.” He replied in turn, taking a swig from the waterskin before handing it back to her. “Most of my childhood was spent at my grandda’s palace since my da’s place was being rebuilt. It was… interesting.”

      Chêl watched him as she sealed the waterskin and set it aside in the basket. Bog Prince felt the weight of her gaze and swallowed the lump in his throat, turning his eyes away and towards the vast land sprawling out ahead of them. He had never been the talkative sort and this growing friendship left the burden of words solely on his shoulders.

      It felt strange to talk about himself. Even the residents of Roothaven, a village far from the majority of his kingdom’s populations knew some about him and few bothered asking him about his life. Most people knew enough to assuage any curiosity they were willing to voice.

      “Grandda insisted that ah learn the politics of the land which was boring as it sounds. If it were nae for aunt Dawn and my grandma pulling me away for balls and such, Ah might have died of boredom.”

      He saw her lips curve and felt emboldened to speak more.

      “Ye have heard about my parents, Ah’m sure.” Chêl nodded and he continued. “Even with the kingdoms at peace, they both insisted Ah learn how to fight. Guess it came in handy since it managed to get me on your good side.”

      The hunter pursed her lips in disagreement but her hands remained still rather than argue.

      “They’re part of the reason why Ah’m here. They knew Ah needed to get away from my grandma and felt Ah could use some adventure so…” Bog Prince did not miss the way her head tilted when he mentioned his grandmother but buried that explanation.

      There really was no need to tell her that he wanted as far away from his grandmother as possible. The woman had gotten it into her mind that he was of age to find himself a mate and had taken to dragging eligible singles to throw at him. The woman was insistent that he find someone and give her great-grandchildren. His parents had offered him sympathetic looks before giving him a swift kick to start his journey far, far away from either castle.

      Embarrassing was one word for his grandmother’s matchmaking. Off the mark was another. It was nothing against the people she paraded through the palace to meet him. He was sure they were all fine individuals, but he was just not interested.

      Given Chêl’s solitude, he wondered what she would think if he were to talk about it. Would she consider it some messed up form of bragging? Would she sympathise and understand his desire to get away?

      Their small meal finished, Chêl packed away what little remained before getting to her feet. She paused long enough to offer him his hand and he accepted the help up. Her hand felt warm, warmer than his own, and he could not be sure if it was because of the gloves or because she ran hotter. He only had enough time to register the temperature difference before she pulled away walked away, basket tucked into the crook of her arm.

      Bog Prince stared after her, flexing his fingers against the lingering heat of her touch unsure if he was trying to shake it off or keep the sensation in.

 


End file.
